


The Fathomed Depths

by YosiaSing



Category: Original Work
Genre: #ownvoices, Cantonese Character, Character(s) of Color, Chinese Character, F/F, Family, Female Character of Color, Female-Centric, Interspecies Relationship(s), Interspecies Romance, Near Future, Non-Linear Narrative, POV Character of Color, POV Original Female Character, POV Second Person, Queer Character, Romance, Science Fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-06-04 17:07:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15151745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YosiaSing/pseuds/YosiaSing
Summary: Her face has thousands upon thousands of layers: one for each day she’s lived, one for each day she has yet to live. You’re tempted to draw her in, absorb her, to lose yourself in crystallized moments of her strange and beautiful existence.





	The Fathomed Depths

Yiu-teen is twelve years old. In a certain sense, you don’t yet exist, but you inhabit her entire timeline. She’s given you the gift of herself, and though she’d prefer that you see only the moments she chooses, you experience all of her.

 

“It’s hard not to feel violated,” she’ll tell you, when she understands the full consequence of what it means to be in a relationship with you. “We Yan value our privacy.”

“It’s my nature,” you’ll tell her, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “But separation is always possible. You have this choice.”

“ _No_ ,” she’ll say, suddenly ferocious, like the subvocal growl of a cornered feline. “I can be less Yan, if I have to.”

“Yes,” you’ll agree. “I think you can.”

 

Yiu-teen is twelve years old. Her palms are marked with the four red crescent indentations of her fingernails, and she pushes her fist against her chin, as if to force her own mouth closed.

The other children have cornered her in a hallway inside the school’s recreation bubble, crowding around her and looking at her with hunter’s eyes, but she is not yet a tiger, and they have all the weapons.

“Ngoi-sing-yan lover,” sneers a girl who is prone to parroting her mother’s words. With time, she’ll claim the words and beliefs as her own.

“Ai, what a xenoparasite,” a boy agrees, shaking his head. He wields his cruelty with great relish, as if doing so with an unwavering moral superiority makes it virtuous.

“Yeah!” The youngest chimes in, eager to secure her standing amongst the group. “Why don’t you go to Gwai Gong System and have a baby!”

Yiu-teen’s entire body trembles with rage, her lower lip shaking as she tries to speak.

“The term you’re _looking_ for is xenophile, you backwards purists!” She screams hoarsely. Before they can gather themselves to reply, she continues, jeering right back at them. “I _do_ love Gigna, and maybe I _will_ go to her system and have a baby with her, and maybe you’ll all just rot here like evolutionary dead ends!”

She surges forward, her body a torpedo, and breaks through their wall, running as fast as she can.

Despite her bravado, the inklings of the woman she will become, their words are sharp splinters that slip easily under her skin. They find their way into her soft underbelly, taking up residence in the spaces carved out by her own questions and worries.

Yiu-teen loves the offworld girl, though not the way the other students think -- her dreams and fantasies are not of reproduction and genetic mingling, but of introducing Gigna to her favorite luk cha, of cuddling in a cozy pod headed for Gigna’s ship while whispering secrets to each other.

You observe that many of these Yan, these humans, believe that any existence outside their realm of understanding is inherently threatening. They’re terrified of feeling small. They cannot seem to grasp that, in actuality, it is their own fears that render them weak and vulnerable; that they are the architects of their own frailty.

⦾

“You’re angry,” you say, breaking the silence. She’s sitting statue-still in her chair, hands limp in her lap, eyes staring straight ahead but not seeing anything. Her bottom lip is pulled into her mouth, nailed into place with her teeth.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” She turns to you, dark eyes blazing, expression a brewing thunderstorm.

Finding the words is a struggle. To transmit even this small amount information to her was a challenge, but she’s not interested in your explanations.

Instead, you say: “It wasn’t a certainty. It still _isn’t_ a certainty.”

Her mouth twists bitterly, and she shakes her head, ejecting a harsh laugh. “Aiya, it’s a probability, right? I’ve heard that before.”

It’s clear that no matter the timing, the presentation, or any of a hundred other factors would change her reaction. There’s no part of her that wants to hear this.

“I’m sorry,” you say, because it’s all you have to give her at this moment. The pain that awaits her weighs on you, as well.

 

> Yiu-teen is seven years old. Her hair is braided neatly, the ends reaching her chest, and she’s wearing mourning white. Her great-grandmother’s body is on display in the clear pod in the center of the room. The top is open so that the mourners can pay their respects and leave small objects inside for her. Yiu-teen’s parents are in another corner of the room speaking in hushed tones with relatives.
> 
> Yiu-teen stares at her great-grandmother, her feet fixed in place twenty paces from the coffin, crying angry tears. She’s not ready for taai-paw to leave yet. She wants to go back to taai-paw’s bedroom, to crawl into her lap and count her knuckles, using her own small thumbs to smooth out the wrinkles in taai-paw’s skin.
> 
> She wants to hear taai-paw read to her, the way she did every night, her tremulous voice giving each character a unique cadence and tone. Taai-paw loved stories with mischievous animal-gods best, and afterwards she’d lead Yiu-teen into the kitchen where they’d make sweet snacks out of toasted nuts, cooked glutinous rice, dried fruits, and crystallized sugar. Yiu-teen liked to crush the sticky rice in her fist until it held together, offering it up like a treasure. Taai-paw always ate it with the greatest gusto, placing a kiss on Yiu-teen’s forehead just between her eyes.
> 
>  

The platform will hover high in the air, fourteen stories up on the wall of plaques. Her great-grandmother’s will be near the edge of the structure, a simple bronze plaque inscribed with the old-style traditional Chinese characters.

“I don’t know what it says, but the calligraphy is beautiful,” she’ll tell you, shielding her eyes from the sun. “My grandfather hired an artist.”

The salt-tinged air will blow in from the nearby coast, stirring her hair at her back. You’ll have known each other for two of her years, and she’ll trust you enough to say the following words: “You know, I can’t really remember her face, even when I look at the holos. But somehow I still miss her.”

You’ll look at her, the faint rainbow of the protective railing distorting the air behind her, the sunlight filling the hollows in her face and illuminating her light brown skin. You’ll understand in that moment that her loss is ongoing, that although she claims to live a life of linear distinction, it makes no difference. The passage of twenty-nine years has not severed the bond or erased the shape of its absence.

“I can help you.” You’ll reach for her, slipping a hand around to cradle her neck. “See her again. If you’d like.”

She’ll be uncertain, but she’ll nod, leaning forward to press your foreheads together. With just a sliver of dissolution, a faint dissipation, you’ll bring back to her what was always hers.

 

“I just --” She exhales sharply, air hissing between her teeth. She pushes the chair roughly behind her as she stands, nearly toppling it out of its antigravity bubble. Her frustration seethes under her skin, boiling and acidic. “I wish I’d known _sooner_ , before I -- before I --”

 _Before I fell in love with you_ , she doesn’t finish saying.

The wind goes out of her at this, and she becomes smaller, sadder. She sits again, slumped, and you kneel before her, taking her hands.

“I’m sorry,” you repeat, laying your head in her lap. “I’m so sorry.”

⦾

_Your Yan shape is naked, standing in a forest. The leaves are towering, giant arches, curved in shades of burnt orange, burnished red, and bruised purple. Spiraled, gnarled trunks fight their way skyward and the silken air tastes like crumbling leaves, fertile loam._

_The tiger comes out of the underbrush, her white coat stark against the vivid colors. She watches you with dark, curious eyes. She’s vibrant and glorious; you feel no fear._

_You walk towards her and lay yourself down on the ground, stretching out. You turn your head to the side, baring your throat. This is all a choice, every second of this existence is a choice, down to the tendons in your neck and the blood you create._

_The tiger approaches you, carefully opening her jaw and settling the points of her curved teeth against your pulse points. You look up at her, imploring._

_She sinks her teeth in, slowly, deliberately, and you keep creating more blood to give. It pours freely until you know no more._

⦾

“But I’m so scared for you, a-neui,” Mrs. Lui, Yiu-teen’s mother, wails. She places her hand over her mouth and shakes her head vigorously. “Please reconsider.”

“But this is good news,” Mr. Lui says, placing a hand on his wife’s shoulder. “We should be proud of her.”

“You don’t have to worry, ama. It’s perfectly safe,” Yiu-teen says. She’s attempting to placate, but she can’t fully conceal her impatience, her excitement. “This is what I’ve been waiting for my entire career. I’m _ready_.”

“See?” Mr. Lui smiles brightly, rubbing a circle on his wife’s back. He leans back in his chair, nodding to himself. “Nothing to worry about. Look at how confident she is. They’re clearly choosing the best person for the job.”

“But -- but --” Mrs. Lui is clearly unconvinced. Her body is sketched in anxious lines; she darts glances at you nervously.

She’s always bracing herself, wondering what you might do next, even though you’ve never gone beyond exchanging the bland pleasantries you memorized for these occasions. Mrs. Lui’s expectations and worries are a knot you don’t try to untangle; you understand that they exist in a reality independent of your actions or intentions.

“But what about these Ngoi-sing-yan, these aliens? What if they are dangerous?” Mrs. Lui refuses to be deterred.

Yiu-teen’s brows draw together.

“Ama.” Her tone carries a warning. Abruptly, the atmosphere of the room changes; there is an awareness of Yiu-teen’s barely concealed fangs lurking just beneath her calm exterior, the way she becomes larger and seems to place herself between her parents and you. A swell of old, familiar tension rises between them.

“I am not talking about Lung-won!” Mrs. Lui says, using the name you’ve been given. She is insulted and genuinely doesn’t understand why Yiu-teen is getting angry at her. “Lung-won is family! I would never call her a Ngoi-sing-yan.”

Yiu-teen’s energy snaps lightning-quick and she surges to a standing position, slamming her chopsticks down on the table.

“You just _did_ , ama.” Words are boiling at the base of her tongue, but she stalks out of the room before she can speak them, leaving her parents’ stunned silence in her wake.

 

> Mr. Lui knocks on the door quietly before entering. Yiu-teen turns from the mirror where she is standing, looking over her shoulder at him.
> 
> “A-neui,” he says, marveling at her. He is surprised by the depth of tenderness he feels seeing her prepare for this rite of passage. “You look so beautiful.”
> 
> Yiu-teen smooths her hands over her hips in a fluttering motion, turning back to the mirror. Her red gown is embroidered with a golden phoenix and dragon, intertwined in a celestial dance, and it hugs every one of her soft curves. Her wide cheekbones and smooth eyelids are accentuated with twinkling shades of red and gold, and her long black hair is pinned in an elaborate, multi-layered design at her crown.
> 
> “I’m so nervous,” she admits. She raises her hands to her neck, fanning herself. “Not that Lung-won will care -- these things don’t make sense to her -- but I feel sick to my stomach.”
> 
> “Well.” Mr. Lui sits in the chair beside the mirror, leaning his elbows on his knees. He clears his throat awkwardly. “It is not too late.”
> 
> Yiu-teen stops fanning herself, dropping her hands. She wasn’t expecting the attack on this front. “Aba. Not you, too?”
> 
> “No, no, no. You know I have nothing against her. Your mother, though.” He pauses, tilting his head. “She is very worried.”
> 
> Yiu-teen, unable to contain herself, begins to pace. In her clothing, it is a laborious process. “Today, of all days! I’m so tired of Ama making _her_ xenophobia _my_ problem.”
> 
> “Come,” Mr. Lui chides. “Be respectful of your mother. She has a right to be worried.”
> 
> Yiu-teen stops. “What do you mean?”
> 
> Mr. Lui rises, walking over to stand in front of her. He has a long, thin face and kind eyes that crinkle easily when he is amused. Right now, he is somber. “Have you thought about how hard it will be for her to adapt to Yan customs? How much do you know about her people?” He raises his hands, laying them on her shoulders. “Can you even have children?”
> 
> Yiu-teen looks at her father, trying not to waver, but her lip trembles.
> 
> “Aiya.” Mr. Lui pats her shoulders gently, smiling at her. “It’s okay. Maybe you don’t know now. You will have time to figure these things out.”
> 
> Sniffling, she nods. “I love her very much.”
> 
> “I know, a-neui.” He reaches down, taking her hand and sliding her arm through his. “Let’s go and find her, hmm?”

 

The clinic will be appallingly sterile for a place that purports to create life, but the doctor will be kind. She’ll talk about genetic compatibility, statistical probabilities and scientific projections of success, and the new exciting frontiers that you’ll be bridging together. You’ll notice the words that she won’t say, the promises she’ll be careful not to make. Her offers will be defined by omission.

“There’s actually a chance, then?” She’ll be afraid to get her hopes up, but also won’t be able to stop herself.

“We’re going to do absolutely everything we can to make it possible,” the doctor will say, beaming brightly.

 

The room is quiet after she’s left. At long last, you’re going to do what Mrs. Lui has been bracing for since the first time you entered her home, since Yiu-teen told them she was dating an offworlder.

“I’ll watch over Yiu-teen,” you say. “When she’s up there, meeting them.”

Mrs. Lui watches you with wide eyes, afraid to miss anything you do, and it is Mr. Lui that speaks. “That is allowed?”

You shrug, an inelegant gesture you haven’t mastered. “No one will know.”

They look at each other, exchanging some kind of unspoken communication that eludes your ability to interpret. What you don’t tell them is that you are always with her, that it’s not a matter of choice. But you’d like to offer this to them, as a token, something to ease their minds.

“We would appreciate that very much,” Mrs. Lui says, once they’ve concluded their negotiations. She presses her lips together, nodding once; the matter is settled. “More tea?” She asks, half-rising out of her seat.

You nod. “Thank you.”

⦾

_You are mist, drifting across a barren moon._

_The tiger lies on the ground, limp and slowly suffocating. She looks at you pleadingly, tongue lolling out of her mouth. She cannot make a sound._

_You blanket yourself over her, absorbing her, saving her, deconstructing her._

⦾

Five years later, and this form still finds the most inopportune moments not to cooperate with you. The air’s precariously thin and the cold seeps into your skin relentlessly; the scarf around your neck and face feel like little more than decoration.

“Let’s rest, my sweet,” Yiu-teen suggests, noting your ragged breathing and the distinctively astringent undertone in your demeanor. “It’s time for lunch, anyway.” She guides you to some logs that have fallen off the main trail and you sit side by side. She offers you the water tube, and the liquid is soothing as it slides down your throat.

“This climb is intended to be a pleasurable activity?” You watch as she removes her pack and rummages through it, pulling out the food supplies.

“Mmm-hmm.” She hums an affirmative. She presses the buttons that will expand the trays to their full size, handing you the smaller tray and keeping the larger for herself. Hers has a mixture of foods and flavors while yours contains only fruit. “It can be a way to push yourself, to test your endurance.”

You mull this over, pulling out a strawberry and biting off its tip. You’ve been refining your ability to taste and you note this flavor as sweet, piquant, and subtle. “We have similar rituals in our culture.”

“You do?” She mixes her food with her utensil, steam rising in the chill air.

“Yes. We’re interested in attaining new states of being.” You suck the juice out of the flesh of the strawberry until it yields no more. “To do so, we must… learn to withstand these new states. It’s not always easy.”

She’s quiet for a long moment before she squares her shoulders and pivots her entire body, facing in your direction.

“Is that what you’re doing -- learning? With me?” Her energy becomes more tightly knit as she awaits your answer, and now you understand. She’s preparing herself to be disappointed, poising herself for a blow.

“No,” you say softly, shaking your head. There’s nothing so noble or honored in your choices; you’re an anomaly in the eyes of your peers. “Not at all. I’m here because I want to be.”

Your discomfort is obvious and she immediately regrets herself.

“I’m sorry.” She looks away. “That wasn’t fair of me, to accuse you.”

There are many things you’d like to say, things you see in her that she cannot yet see, but you suspect it would only complicate the matter further. Improvising, you reach down into the container in your lap, pulling out a large, juicy strawberry. She taught you that Yan gift sweet things to one another a sign of affection.

“Here,” you say, extending your arm, holding the fruit by its leafy stem.

She looks up slowly, confused for a moment. She laughs when she understands your intent, the sound muffled by her scarf, and the tight band that was constricting the two of you loosens.

She scoots closer to you on the log, pulls her scarf down, and points at her mouth. “We may as well do this properly.” She leaves her mouth hanging open, looking at you expectantly. You feed it to her, and after that another, the two of you laughing, billowing amusement into the air until they’re all gone.

 

> She’s uncharacteristically shy when she kisses you, and when she pulls away her some of the red color is smeared outside of the lines of her lips. You wipe at her mouth with your thumb, but it does no good, so you pick up the corner of the bedsheet instead, heedless of staining the fine white fabric. She’s quiet under your ministrations, but her heart is beating fast in her chest; something has changed, and it’s percolating through her, a trembling anticipation.
> 
> You follow her lead as you come together, drinking in her electricity, skimming your fingers just under the surface of her skin. She swells underneath you, turbulent; you stoke her wildness, entwining yourself around her strong calves, the curve of her waist, the weight of her breasts.
> 
> Her onslaught is fierce, luscious; her nails rake deep into you, scoring you, but as you slide against her, the sounds escape her in quiet, broken murmurs. She takes and gives in equal measure, her eyes tender when they find you. She’s so open, in a way you’ve never seen her, and you dive into her completely, sugar dissolving sweetly in water. 
> 
> In the quiet afterwards, she clings to your solidifying form, throwing her leg over your hip and pulling you close.
> 
> “You’re my wife now,” she says, her voice thick and pleased.
> 
> You think about the words she spoke to you in front of her family, the tears she cried, how tightly she held your hand. You recited a vow back to her, but the volatility of the emotional energy in the room was overwhelming for you; the entire thing was a blur and you barely held yourself together.
> 
> “Yiu-teen, I…” You want to find the words now, as inadequate and limited as they might be. You search for some time before they coalesce. “With you, I fathom depths greater than I knew possible.”
> 
> She opens her eyes, smiling at you even as her tears return. You lean forward, kissing her delicately, and feel that she’s beginning to understand.

In a life that you’ll never have, Yiu-teen’s belly will grow large and she’ll walk through the house singing. She’ll peel pomelos carefully in the sunshine, removing every bit of skin to pluck out the tiny, immaculate teardrops of pink flesh.

You’ll tell her the baby’s dreams and impressions, describing how her heartbeat sounds through your child’s ears. She’ll revel in this knowledge, and imploring you to read to her belly every night, on the condition that you give every character a different voice.

You’ll hold your baby’s tiny hand in yours, and when you close your eyes, the two of you will be at the home you left long ago. That simply, and you’ll be amazed to discover that you never had to leave.

 

The mountain range stretches endlessly into the distance. It’s an illusion, but with these eyes and in this body, it’s a powerful one. The clouds create an ocean of slowly swirling white that makes it seem like the two of you have crossed the threshold into a new realm.

“Thank you.” You breathe the harsh air deeply, unable to take your eyes away. The immensity is unexpectedly comforting. “For bringing me here.” 

“My pleasure.” She sidles closer to you, slipping an arm around your lower back. “And we’ve still got lots of items to check off our ‘Project: Yan Experience’ list.” She leans closer, whispering in your ear. “There may or may not be prizes at the end of it.”

Her caressing warmth indicates that there will be. “In that case, I look forward to receiving them.”

“I’m sure you do,” she laughs, loud and lively in the stillness. She drops her head on your shoulder, and you tilt your head down, resting your cheek on her hair, savoring the length and breadth of the moment.

⦾

“I must know,” the woman gushes, holding her wineglass close to her chest. “Do you and your adorable xenowife plan on reproducing?”

The woman, though she’s speaking to Yiu-teen, makes a point of looking at you from top to bottom in a slow, dissecting fashion. She was staunchly against the legalization of your type of marriage when it was politically unpopular, but as the trend shifts her vulgar curiosities are coming out into the light of day.

She continues, lowering her tone conspiratorially. “From the looks of her you’ll produce gorgeous little multispecies gems.” She pretends not to notice that Yiu-teen has gone sickly pale and is shaking slightly.

In moments like these, pieces that are fragments of the larger fractal pattern, you think that Yiu-teen must have some inkling of the macrocycles. She’s living in a spherical, never-ending chain of sequences.

 

> Yiu-teen is starting to get angry with the doctor’s evasive and vague answers. “What _exactly_ are you saying?”
> 
> The doctor’s lips are pinched. She feels almost crass saying these things out loud. “We didn’t realize the scope of genetic differences we’d be looking at. There are some species that share about eighty percent of our genetic structure. That, we can work with. Lung-won’s genetic material superficially _looks_ like ours, but it behaves in extremely unpredictable and potentially dangerous ways.” She shakes her head. “I’m sorry, Ms. Lui, but there’s no way we can work with it.”
> 
> “So, what?” Yiu-teen crosses her arms over her chest. “That’s it, a few tests and it’s done? You can’t be serious.”
> 
> “I’m sorry,” the doctor repeats. One of her thumbs strokes repetitively over the other, counting down the seconds until this conversation is over. “There’s nothing more we can do.”
> 
> Yiu-teen’s jaw works as she looks at the artwork on the wall, soft flowers drifting in a lake. “And what if I don’t accept that? What if we decide to try, anyway?”
> 
> The doctor is taken aback. She blinks rapidly, trying to compose herself. “I… even if you could find a clinic willing to do such a procedure… ethically, I would strongly advise against it. Even if the fetus made it to full term, which is a big if, it wouldn’t live long past birth.” The doctor’s expression becomes shuttered. “And the time the child would have… would likely be very painful.”
> 
> Yiu-teen has gone very still, not looking away from the water lilies.
> 
> You reach out, laying a hand over hers. “We understand,” you say. Neither of you do: Yiu-teen because she is unwilling, you because these matters are far outside of your realm of experience.
> 
> “You have my sincerest condolences,” the doctor says. “And I appreciate that you may feel you’re running out of time, but reproductive science is still advancing at a truly exponential pace--”
> 
> “Running out of time?” Yiu-teen interrupts, coming out of her reverie. “You said my fertility predictions look good for another thirty years.”
> 
> “Of course, of course, I was referring to…” The doctor looks at you, trailing off when she realizes that not all the participants in this conversation share the same information. She stares at you with a question in her eyes, and a certain pity. Yiu-teen turns to you, too, beginning to sense that there’s something going on.
> 
> “Why don’t I just give you two a moment?” The doctor says, rising from her desk. The two of you hardly notice as she slips out.
> 
> “She was talking about you, wasn’t she?” Yiu-teen swallows as she speaks. Each word is virtually dragged out of her mouth. “When she was talking about cellular degradation, earlier, I didn’t put it together…”
> 
> “Yes,” you say, even though until this moment you didn’t fully understand yourself. You’re aware of the duality of loss she’s experiencing in this moment. Hold her hand tightly, you wish there was something else you could give, or do, or say to ease this moment for her. There is nothing that would suffice.

 

“Excuse me,” you murmur, catching the woman’s eyes. She turns towards you, tilting her head and blinking. She’s surprised you’ve spoken back. “Can you tell me where you purchased the garment you’re wearing?”

Looking at her as she happily obliges, you silently allow your consciousness to expand beyond your typical tight rein. You generally try to give the Yan as much privacy as you can, although a good deal still seeps through, but this woman is not careless or simply ignorant. She strategizes, searching for the entrance points to Yiu-teen’s wounds, looking to slip her claws into the edges of old scar tissue. She forgets, though, that Yiu-teen is no longer alone, and you’ve learned something of ferocity from her.

Hovering at the edges of her awareness, you infuse the space between you with a sliver of saturnine darkness, a burgeoning incandescence, creating a single thundering, trembling imperative: _leave_.

The woman trails off in the middle of her sentence, every cell in her body shrinking away in recoil. She takes a step back, and then another, stammering out a barely coherent excuse as she hurriedly flees, not looking back. 

Yiu-teen’s vice-like grip on your hand relaxes a bit, and you guide her gently across the room to rejoin her friends.

⦾

_You’re in a field of vividly green grass that undulates in the wind. With just a slight change to the light, it could be an ocean instead, miles of uncharted territory stretching beneath your feet. The tiger is in the distance and you run to her, fly to her, swim to her._

_You raise your hands to her face, dropping your forehead down to hers. When you open your eyes, you have transformed into a mirror image of her, your hands replaced with paws, your skin replaced with white fur._

_The two of you take off running, side by side, velocity smudging and stretching as you burn out like comets, brilliant and majestic, until you disappear into light, into darkness, into nothing._

⦾

Her time is slipping out of your grasp. She’s been a tether for you, a guide, a road; without her, you disperse and traverse widely.

Her face has thousands upon thousands of layers: one for each day she’s lived, one for each day she has yet to live. You’re tempted to draw her in, absorb her, to lose yourself in crystallized moments of her strange and beautiful existence.

She lays down beside you, holding your form so tightly that you begin to feels its dimensions again. Her breathing hitches on the inhales, silent tears burning serpentine trails down your neck. Witnessing her preemptive grief feels like dying more than your actual undoing: the acuteness of her pain tears through you, imploring you hold on, to tread impossible paths to reach her.

“I would,” you say, unsure if you’ve been speaking aloud. “Any path at all, if only I could find it.”

“I know.” Her lips brush the skin of your fluctuating shoulder. “You’ve already given up so much, my sweet. So much more than I could know. Just rest now.”

She simply holds you, her heart and breathing slowing, her strength growing as yours fails. When the light fades she pulls the blankets over the both of you, murmuring soft reassurances.

Over the next seconds, moments, hours, the lines bleed. Inevitability isn’t the same as ease, and the spasms grip you as the transition takes hold. She doesn’t let go, holding you through each step.

Cohesion ebbs, and in a bizarre duality as your grip disintegrates, the complex organism of her emotional system sharpens into clearer focus. Her love, which you’ve only felt secondhand until now, filtered through the dense layers of her humanity, envelops you. It’s luminous vapor flowering ever-outward: immense, rarefied, quietly humbling --

There’s a resonant familiarity in the vastness that calls to a deep part of you, almost forgotten. It feels so peaceful, so true to sink into pliable softness in response. To stop feeding the artificial boundaries you’ve needed to move through her world, releasing the unrelenting pressure to contain yourself, embracing your essential nature once more.

 _Yes_ , she sings, _come home to me, my sweet_ , her exuberant welcome rolling through you in waves. She draws you in, grief is transmuting into curiosity, tender hope edging in, but you’re hesitant at the precipice. You’ve mapped new territories together, but here lies a singular risk. This irrevocable turning point that has always been here between the two of you, never spoken aloud, carefully skirted in intimate moments.

 _It’s my turn, now._ She’s opening up, making space for you. _To become something different. I’m ready._ Her resolve is unwavering, and you remember what that was like: meeting a young assistant delegate lost in the maintenance circles whose eyes sparkled when you materialized in front of her. How you drew the image of a moon goddess from her mind to make your face, and the two of you lingered long after she should’ve gotten back. Perhaps it is her turn, to venture into the unknown, and in truth you share the same longing to give yourself over to her, to know and to be known.

When you rise up to meet her, the desires aligning into a harmonious reciprocity, her joy reverberates loudly, deeply, a sonorous bell echoing in sacred chambers.

You saturate her with abandon, water on parched lips, intermingling constituent elements in an emergent harmony. Countless particles collide, disintegrate, and re-form and still she wants more, drawing you deeper, farther into entirety, immersion, fusion. You surrender until the blood runs dry, until _you_ are no more, and there’s only light and silence and a profound, permeating sense of rightness.

⦾

Existence persists. The potentiality was low, but it’s materialized: physicality is concrete, perception is altered but unharmed, the flow of energy is strong and free. Sensations solidify, cells settling into new alignments.

We’re… _alive_. More than alive. An improbable spark, a whorl etched into ice, osmanthus petals floating on the wind. Our freshly-birthed timeline feels both infinite and ephemeral, a pristine and untouched possibility stretched before us.


End file.
